Looking for faith is where you will find it.

Christianity

October 04, 2016

“Hello to you,” the parson replied as he exited his car in preparation to enter the local Kroger. “Good to see you. I missed you at church the last couple of weeks.”

“I know,” said Jim. “I have to tell you, Parson, I’m not happy with those kids in the worship service.”

The parson immediately knew the kids he was talking about. They were three-year-old twins, a boy and a girl. They hadn’t been to church before coming to the parson’s church and sometimes they stepped outside the normal worship protocol, as evidenced the day the girl escaped her grandmother in the middle of the service, walked to the front, pulled on the parson’s robe, lifted her arms in the air in a “pick me up” signal. The parson picked her up and held her on his hip as he went on with the service.

“I don’t think kids should be allowed to make a commotion during the service, so I’ll not be coming back while they are there,” said Jim.

The parson looked at Jim for a moment and then replied, “Okay.” The parson headed toward the door into the Kroger.

July 11, 2014

The news, at least on cable news, this week has centered around the 60,000 plus or minus children that have come across our southern border. Allow me, please, to share some observations on this issue.

First, in my old country parson analysis, as long as there are third world nations in our hemorpheristic neighborhood there will be people attempting to gain entry into our nation.

Second, the building of a twenty foot high wall on our border will result in only one thing. It will provide motivation for Mexican entrepreneurs to open shops in Juarez where they call sell twenty-two foot ladders.

Third, there is a long history in this country of anti-immigration movements. In the 1850s the Know Nothing Party gained national prominence and influence in the political debate with their opposition to Irish Catholic immigration. In the 1875 the Congress passed the Asian Exclusion Act, which limited the number of Chinese immigrants who could legally enter this country.

Fourth, our anti-immigrant policies have more to do with our prejudices than immigration alone. Some time back, when Ms. Parson was alive, she rented one side of a duplex she owned to a really lovely Hispanic couple. We were both pretty sure they were illegal, but they paid their rent on time, they kept the place amazingly clean. And, frankly, we liked them. When the other side of the duplex came open the tenants recommended a cousin move in. We accepted, gladly. But when the new tenants went to have the water put in their name, the water department asked them to produce a Social Security Card. I went to see the Mayor. I told him that the utilities were still in my wife’s name after I married and I thought that was not very manly so I was going to have the placed in my name. He asked me why I was telling him this. I told him, “If they ask me for a Social Security Card I’m going to pitch a fit.” He wrinkled his brow and stared at me. Then I added, “If they don’t ask me for a Social Security Card I’m going to pitch a fit.” He asked me if he was going to read about this on the web. I smiled.

Fifthly, to emphasize point four, I know three people within two miles of where I live who are illegal. They have never been challenged. They are in no fear of being discovered and deported. They operate openly as though they belong here. Two are from Canada and one is from England. All three are as illegal as the Hispanics that rented Ms. Parson’s duplex. But they don’t live in fear, and the clerk at the Water Department never asks to see their Social Security Card.

Sixth, the current crisis occupying the news is not about immigration, legal or illegal. The current crisis is about children, children who are refugees.

The dictionary defines an immigrant as: A person who comes to a country to live there. That same dictionary defines a refugee as: One that flees; especially a person who flees to a foreign country escape danger or persecution.

The Christian Science Monitor has noted (November 10, 2009) that Guatemala has long cultivated a reputation as one of the Western Hemisphere’s most brutal places for women. Seventy-seven out of every 100,000 were raped in 2008. The Daily Mail on July 30, 2012 (dailymail.co.uk) noted that Honduras has the highest murder rate of any nation. In 2012, the Peace Corps members in that nation were withdrawn from the country. The Honduran President stated they had been withdrawn because of the effects of the crime rate. More than 300 women have been murdered in Honduras in the past decade. This country is considered to be the world’s deadliest by the United Nations. In 2010 thirty-six women were killed each month and in 2012 the number was up to 2012. Ninety percent of these murders have never been investigated. A woman being raped in her own home in a common thing in Honduras.

The children crossing the border and surrendering to the Border Patrol are from these countries. They have traveled a thousand miles to reach the United States. Think about that last sentence. How bad does it have to be for a mother to place her ten-year-old daughter into the hands of strangers in the hope she makes it to the United States.

These children are refugees. They are fleeing horrendous conditions, so horrendous their mothers are willing to gamble on them making it.

Seventh, citizens of the United States, both elected officials and ordinary folks, are acting like the north end of a south bound horse. Picture those idiots, yep, I said idiots, standing in front of those buses filled with the children who had crossed the border. They yell and scream they don’t want these illegals in our country. They are screaming at children on board a Border Patrol bus filled with children in the Border Patrol’s custody. Go figure.

Congresspersons make their cute little speeches on the floor of the Congress, no doubt when they are certain the C-Span cameras are rolling. They speak of the horrible dangers that face our country from these ten-year-old despoilers of all that is American. The sight of Toddler Terrorist just angers them. “Send them back. Send them back. Send them back.” was the cry of one prominent Senator. Hmmm! That might be a good slogan glad speeches about this being a Christian nation. all the while they forget the basic foundation of the Judeo-Christian tradition is hospitality, welcoming the foreigner, the stranger. Here’s a reminder, according to the story, Sodom and Gomorrah were not destroyed because of homosexuality but because they did not show hospitality.

Eighth, I just can't resist this. Governor Perry, about your request for the President to mobilize the National Guard, why are you waiting on the President. Every Governor has the power to mobilize their state National Guard. So, mobilize the Texas National Guard. Of course, if you mobilize it your state will have to pay for it and put your money where your mouth is.

Finally, and here endeth this rant, Jim Wallis, the founder and editor of Sojourners recently wrote about speaking to his child’s fifth grade class. It was a school that was multi-cultural, multi-racial. In the room were African-Americans, Hispanics, Native-Americans, Asian-americans. As he talked about the immigration the failure of elected officials to solve the problem was discussed. “What are they afraid of?” asked one child. Jim Wallis said he had to think a minute. And then as he looked around the room, at the faces of so many children from so many ethnic backgrounds, he knew the answer.

July 08, 2014

A long way back, so far back it was a previous century, I fell in love with a wonderful woman. We got married on a soccer field (hold that thought for a future writing). Who would have thought we’d ever get married. She was Roman Catholic. I was a United Methodist pastor. She was the Parish Administrator for an Episcopal Church. Maybe that was a good thing. We had it covered coming and going.

She had an uncle who I really bonded with. He lived in New York City. He, too, like she, was Roman Catholic. He was active in his church. He was really active. He was some big shot in the Knights of Columbus. This old country Protestant pastor didn’t understand the dynamics of that, but I was smart enough to realize he was somebody in his church.

He died. He left instructions that he wanted this old country parson to deliver the message at his funeral mass. And so, I headed north with my “Yankee” wife to celebrate, as I term it, the life and resurrection of this unique child of God.

At the wake, his priest approached me. “Pastor,” he said, after introductions, “would you do us the honor of reading this scripture?” He was wrong about whose honor it was. At the appropriate time I stood by his side as he handed me his Missal and pointed to the part I was to read. I did. And I did it nervously as I was truly a novice at this ritual.

The next day, I stood, again, by his side as he went through the ritual and covered the casket with the funeral pall. And then we led the casket down the center aisle of that huge cathedral side-by-side. I broke off from the procession at the first pew closest to the altar, next to my Roman Catholic wife who took my hand as she obviously sensed my nervousness.

The Father, along with the other priests who assisted him, proceeded through the liturgy of his faith with obvious compassion and love for this dear, dear saint of his congregation. And then he nodded to me.

Shaking like a leaf I walked to that high, high, pulpit. I delivered the message about my wife’s uncle, his life, his resurrection, and the promise his faith held for each of us. I walked down from the pulpit and seated myself beside my wife once more. Suddenly, I realized where I was sitting. I would be the first to go forth to receive the Eucharist.

Married to a Roman Catholic, this was not my first attendance at a Mass. When the appropriate time came, I walked forward, crossed my arms across my chest to indicate I was not Roman Catholic, and intoned the words, “Bless me, Father.”

The Father smiled. Before I knew what happened he stuck that wafer into my mouth and said, “You are blessed, my brother.”

I cried. I cried like a baby all the way back to my place in the pew. I understood the enormity of what had just happened.

At the graveside, an older priest approached me. I later learned he was not without influence with the powers that be in the church. “Now, Pastor,” he said with a thick Irish accent, “let’s not be telling a lot of folks what the father did back there at the church. Some authorities might not understand.”

So, for decades I haven’t told anyone. But realizing how old I am now, and realizing the priest was at least ten years older than I, he, if he still lives, is beyond the retribution of any bishop. And I? I still remain the old country preacher who one day, in that really big, big, city, at the altar of that really big, big cathedral was blessed by a priest who was a walking definition of ecumenical.

May 13, 2014

The parson and Patrick, a seventh grader, were driving a stake with a red strip of cloth attached into the yard of the church. Three feet from their position, scratched out into the ground, was an indentation in the yard which hosted the nest of the Killdeer who hung out at the church in the spring of every year. In the nest rested four eggs, resembling pieces of gravel.

To the east of the parson and Patrick the Mommy Killdeer splayed her wings and raised her tail to appear bigger as she fussed and fussed and fussed. To the west the Daddy Killdeer floundered about on the ground one wing extended as he faked being wounded, in a frantic effort to attract these seeming predators away from the eggs.

Having placed the stake in the ground so that when the yard was mowed the next day the lay person on the mower would not harm the nest, the parson and Patrick rose from their knees and walked back toward the church. Reaching the church driveway they turned and watched the two parents hop back toward the nest. Mommy settled herself upon the eggs. Daddy went to search for bugs.

“Thanks for helping, Patrick,” the parson said.

“You’re welcome, Parson,” he responded. “Now the eggs will be safe.”

“That’s right, and maybe in a week we’ll see the babies hopping around the yard.”

“You know what’s funny, Parson?”

“What’s that, Patrick?”

“Well, every year everybody gets all excited about the Killdeer eggs. Everybody in the church wants to make sure they hatch their eggs and the babies are safe.”

“That’s a good thing, Patrick.”

“I know. But every year you have to ask and ask everybody to give money to the Children’s Home.”

The parson paused as he tried to think of a proper response.

“Oh, well, I just think that’s kind of weird,” Patrick said as he turned and walked into the Fellowship Hall.

April 08, 2014

I just watched “Unknown Known” the acclaimed documentary on Donald Rumsfield, which is composed basically of the former Secretary of Defense reading memos he sent to various officials and then his sharing of his reactions to the readings.

One word struch me: Disconnect. Somehow, my reaction was I was viewing an extremely intelligent man who had a life of public service, but seemed, somehow, disconnected.

It brought me back to my recent thoughts of writing a series of blogs about disconnects. I’m convinced that there is a prevalent disconnection that is happening in the Christian church.

The pastors are disconnected from the officials of the denominations. The people in the pews are disconnected from the Gospel being proclaimed, in that they do not, privately, any longer, necessarily, subscribe to the doctrines and polity of the denomination. The pastors and the pew sitters are disconnected from the scriptures in that both pick and choose which verses and interpretations they will follow. And many, both pew-sitters and preachers, are disconnected from the relevance of it all in this technological and educaed world.

Are we living in a time when we’re disconnected from each other, disconnected from any grounding in our faith, disconnected from the gospels, disconnected from each other?

I’m experiencing the feeling that “Disconnected” may be the word that defines our faith journey in the beginning of this century.

Just some thoughts. When I sort it out better, I might write more about it.

September 23, 2012

Krista Tippett, in this unedited video, moderates a conversation between Jim Daly, President of Focus on the Family, and Gabe Lyons, founder of Q: Ideas for Common Good. - This is a compelling discussion with implications for all of us.

December 29, 2011

“Well, hello to you, Parson. Hope your Christmas was as good as it could be.”

“It was, Frank; it was,” responded the parson to Frank Jerkins, a pastor at one of the larger churches a bit south of the parson. “Surprisingly, everything I got was something I really could use and everything fit.”

“That's good to hear, Parson. Good to hear. How was your attendance on Christmas Sunday?”

“It was better than average,” said the parson. “I don't know if it was just because of Christmas or whether the tornado that hit two days before, but folks seemed eager to be there on Christmas Sunday. How about your church?”

“Well, we didn't have church on Christmas Sunday, Parson. We got to thinking about it a few years back when Christmas fell on Sunday, and we decided that since Christmas was a family time we'd cancel services when Christmas fell on Sunday.”

The parson stared at Frank. Frank seemed to be waiting for the parson to speak. After a pregnant silence, the parson did speak. “You canceled your worship services because Christmas fell on Sunday and Christmas is a family time?”

“Yes, that's right. Folks seem to be real pleased with the decision.”

“You canceled your service because Christmas fell on Sunday and Christmas is family time?”

“Are you going to keep repeating that?” Frank asked.

“No, Frank, I'm not going to keep repeating it. I think I'm going over in that corner there and weep.”

“What's your problem, Parson?”

“I'm just curious, Frank, if Christmas is family time then what's your service, PG-13?”

“Oh, that's cute, Parson. You know good and well that when Christmas falls on Sunday the attendance is usually down and it's just impossible to compete with the distractions families face. And it is a time for the family to gather around the Christmas tree.”

The parson stared another silent moment. “Are you nuts?”

“No, Parson, I'm not nuts. I'm practical.”

“Well, I guess that makes me impractical, Frank. I was under the distinct impression that when Christmas fell on Sunday we had a really good opportunity to focus ourselves on the Child and celebrate Christmas as it should be.”

“There's no harm in canceling the services one Sunday, Parson.”

“Oh, but Frank, there is. You just gave a testimony to your people as to where your loyalties lie. You just said to your people that worship is not central, that the old lines of John, 'Prepare ye the way,' are irrelevant. And worse than that, Frank, if you want my opinion you just spit on your vows.”

“You know, Parson, to use one of your favorite expressions, sometimes you can be the north end of a southbound horse.”

The parson smiled, “You know what, Frank, I'm not going to deny that. But I'll tell you this: on Sunday, especially on Christmas Sunday, this southbound horse is going to make sure his ordained north end is behind his pulpit giving witness to who is Lord in his life.”

Copyright

CopyrightThe material on this site, unless otherwise noted, is the property of the author. Church-related use is permissible, but a small nod of the head in the direction of the author will be appreciated.